


Akatsuki and the Quest for Erebor

by Electrasev5n



Category: Naruto, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-08 05:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3197387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electrasev5n/pseuds/Electrasev5n
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf is neglecting his duties in order to traipse about the coast, and it falls to Saruman, most powerful and wise of the Maiar, to ensure that the grubby, hole-dwelling simpletons retake Erebor from the dragon so that Smaug is not seduced into the enemy’s hand. One such as he is far too busy and important to personally shepherd them through this venture, but nor can he trust in their limited competency. Instead, he turns over the seas for someone to go in his place, someone uninvolved with Middle Earth’s politics and unlikely to make a mess of things. He accidentally hires the Akatsuki.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This silliness is a post BOFA coping mechanism that originated on tumblr. My tumblr has additional stuff on this story under the tag of the same name, or just scattered about the place. Find me under 'electraposts', as in
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/electraposts
> 
> because for some reason I can't figure out how to make that a link. I don't know. No one ever accused me of picking up new skills well.

 

Chapter One  
'Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall'

They met as flickering apparitions, ghosts imposed in glittering raindrops over the dreary dampness of Amegakure. Pein-sama was the first to speak his piece, detailing a mission that would necessitate a troubling allocation of time and talent to accomplish, but for the possibility of great reward that could be leveraged toward their ultimate goals. When he fell silent, those present knew well enough to assume that he would observe the following proceedings in silence, confident that his will would be done.

There was a taste of doubt and censure that did not usually hang in the air when missions were discussed. It was the oldest among them who broke the quiet.

“If this erebor,” Kakuzu pronounced distastefully, “is as wealthy as implied, our coffers would benefit from accepting this mission.”

Akatsuki as a whole was politely silent.

Hidan made a disbelieving sound and couldn’t entirely be blamed. “It’s in the middle of ass-fucking nowhere,” he stressed. “We have no finger-fucking intelligence about the place other than what this dick-pump provided us with as lube to gently screw us with.”

There was a moment while everyone present uncomfortably sorted through that assessment. It was surprisingly insightful.

“I concur with Hidan-san,” Itachi offered. “The risk of such a venture is likely not worth the potential for gain.” Not to mention it would take him distressingly far from Sasuke-kun, who would hopefully be mounting a rousing murder attempt any day now.

Deidara instantly gained a mutinous expression that implied he would be willing to single-handedly spearhead the debate for the Monkey-Man’s requested mission overseas, now that Itachi had spoken mildly against it.

Hidan threw his head back and tossed out a ‘Ha!’ that really wasn’t a laugh so much as it was a means to gain the group’s attention. “I didn’t say that.” He blew silky bangs off of his face. “I bet heathens there die just like the ones here.” His eyes sparkled, lit with an internal religious spark that would have been much more poetic if it hadn’t been a literal manifestation of a mad god.

Pein blinked. He did not turn to look at Konan. He did not need to.

“We will be accepting this mission,” she spoke for her god, serenely unaffected as always. “We have determined that the possibility to achieve our financial goals is worth the risk.”

Itachi’s lips itched to press into a line with the uncharitable thought that of course she thought so, when the only thing risked would be the lives of people like Hidan and Kakuzu. It wasn’t as though she would be-

“I will be accompanying two of you to represent our organization.”

He accepted the correction to his worldview with his typical aplomb. That is to say that Itachi noted he had been mistaken, attributed it to his own low qualities, and did not for a moment give thought to re-considering his course of action or underlying assumptions. Itachi looked around the open air, cataloging each flickering figure as a possible candidate.

“Kakuzu-san, Hidan-san, thank you for your willingness to embark on this mission,” Konan said diplomatically. “However, it has been determined that your team may not serve as the optimal diplomatic liaison for first contact with this company of duwaruves.”

Meaning of course that they could not be trusted to refrain from murder of important persons. A sound assessment, to Itachi’s mind. That, unfortunately, led him to wonder who in Akatsuki _could be trusted_ to withhold when the temptation to murder arose. It was a distressingly short list. Certainly not Sasori-san. Or Deidara-san, and most definitely not the eternally, demonically hungry Zetsu-san, and-

“These duwaruves do not know our ways or names. Relations will be difficult. It is my hope that they might find Itachi-san’s youth and manners approachable and endearing,” Konan-san informed, tones crisp and cool. “In contrast, Kisame-san should provide a reminder of Akatsuki’s might that Itachi-san and myself fail to convey.”

“So… The bastard’s there to be a pretty face putting them at ease?” Deidara-san asked, delight twisting his words even as he shot a grin across the room.

Itachi did not defend himself. It was unfortunately true that he would be expected to convey approachability while Kisame-san occupied the unenviable task of inspiring fear.

“Makes sense. He is by far the prettiest face we have,” Kisame said mildly. The ex-Mist shinobi rolled his neck, unaffected by the hooting laughter that Hidan-san immediately loosed. Kisame-san was a loyal partner the likes of which Itachi had rarely been honored to work with. Few would have spoken up in his defense, however flippantly. Those words had been dangerous. Deidara’s sudden glower and cry of “Bullshit!” was an obvious outcome as he suddenly cared about his status as 'prettier than Itachi', if not 'prettiest in all the land', but the true danger was in the way that Konan’s eyes had tightened ever so slightly. Hopefully the fallout of those loyal but hasty words would be visited upon their enemies, and not Kisame-san or himself.

"As you say, Konan-sama," Itachi said in lieu of acknowledging the tenseness that Kisame-san had introduced. "I look forward to joining this company on their mission of reclamation."

She inclined her head to him, appearing not as a woman of flesh and blood but as a princess of spirits offering acknowledgement to an unworthy mortal. "I am sure you do."

That was all she said.


	2. First Meetings

“So these are the mercenaries that Naugrim gold can buy.” Saruman’s eyes were deeply set and heavily lidded, dark and glittering. That was the first thing that Konan noticed about him, other than that his voice had been strangely adept at concealing the contempt his words conveyed.

She blinked slowly to cover the assessment she gave him under her eyelashes without appearing to lower her gaze from his forehead. Like the others she had seen in this place, he was nearly of a height with Kisame-san. On Saru-man-san, that height seemed especially unnatural, his frame elongated like soft candy in the hands of a child. He had the dry, buttery skin of the elderly and infirm, but there was strength in his back and hands. Not wiry strength either- this man of monkeys walked lightly, but she sensed formidable physical ability. This was a swordsman and a staffman, she judged.

The long white staff shining slightly in his hand did aid that judgment. At her back, Kisame-san and Itachi-san gave polite bows. She did not have to look to know that their faces would display no indication of reaction to the words they had not understood. Konan’s back remained relaxed and vertical, setting her apart despite the semblance of equality granted by their uniform cloaks. She was the servant of a god. She bowed to no human.

Her client’s gaze focused on her alone, clearly registering that she was the leader of the strange little party. His attention was a thing of single-minded intensity: Itachi-san and Kisame-san may as well have been furniture.

“Saru-man-san.” Konan acknowledged after purposefully long pause. Whatever else he was, he did not seem to be an impatient man. “I am Pein-sama’s emissary Konan.” She had intended to introduce her companions, but didn’t bother. It was transparent that Saru-man-san did not care.

He was equally unsubtle about his opinion on her accent, despite knowing that she had only been able to work on his language for a few short months and was an adept student. His face twisted into a dismissive sneer. “I see. I am called Saruman, the wise. I have heard much about your people. I hope to find it true.”

That struck her like water in her face. If she had not looked upon his face and understood his words, she would not have detected any hint of condescension or ego in his tones. But that had been an appallingly brazen way to refer to oneself. The disconnect was jarring- was he accustomed to saying sweet words with bitter meaning?

“We shall see," she prevaricated. "Will you be introducing us to our companions?”

At that, Saru-man-san straightened ever further. “I have commanded their leader to meet me at this place.” When he began walking with steps that rang against stone, she walked at his side. “I have merely arranged this transaction. I wish to make it clear that the Naugrim will be responsible for your compensation, and thus it would be appropriate to cede control of our arrangement to them.”

That was unconventional. Changing clients mid-mission was not done. But then, Konan reasoned, this was a strange place. Perhaps it would be foolish not to anticipate foreign customs.

She let her eyes slide shut for a moment in place of nodding her head. “I understand. This will be acceptable, if the duwaruves agree to assume responsibility.” It was good that she had accompanied Itachi-san and Kisame-san. They would not have had the authority to allow such flexibility in contractual terms.

Saru-man-san looked down on her, amusement unhidden. “You may speak differently, once you have met them.” He shook his head, staff clacking down with more force as he walked. “The Naugrim are an affront to the sensibilities of all of Iluvatar’s children. They are wild and poorly disciplined, concerned primarily with the basest of pleasures.” They paused, a short distance away from a great set of doors made of white stone. He seemed to realize what that implied, and added with a waived hand, “Although they do believe in the value of a contract. Fickleness is not among their flaws.” He raised his staff and brought it down against the floor.

The sound echoed- no. That rumble was the sound of heavy stone straining to move.

A passerby gave them an alarmed and awed look, hurrying past much in the way that a rodent would flee into unoccupied corners.

Konan held her tongue and her judgment, stepping forward when Saru-man-san indicated that she should enter first. That critique had told her more about Saru-man-san than the duwaruves. Whatever his reason for arranging this mission, it had not been for the sake of the duwaruves. He did not believe in the rightness of their cause or hold sympathy for their plight. From the way he seemed to think them lesser, Saru-man-san likely thought to arrange their matters as a Daimyo manipulating country lords to protect his interests. But it was not her concern, so she did not ask. Why expend the effort, when the room’s sole occupant fixed a hard gaze on them expectantly?

“This is Thorin Oakenshield.” Saru-man-san announced without ceremony or actually looking at the man in question. “He is your new employer, Lady Konan.”

Konan took her own judgment, noting that he wore a rough working-man’s beard and hardy clothing augmented with a great deal of heavy metal. Like everyone she had seen in this place but Saru-man-san, his colors were subdued, dark tones seasoned with dirt and wear.

Despite that outward similarity with those she had already seen, if Sourin Oakenshield was representative of his people, perhaps there was some basis for the Saru-man-san’s odd tendency to speak as though the duwaruves were an entirely different species and not a group of culturally bound people spread over several kingdoms. His appearance was singularly unique. Sourin-san was of a more normal height than most she had seen, perhaps only a hands-breath shorter than Konan. She was a tall woman, so that did not seem so strange.

His build was the oddity. She had seen only few shinobi who could boast such musculature, and none who were so sturdily compact. It was inconceivable that a continent of warlike peoples would avoid developing chakra for use in combat. But the undeniable solidity of those she had seen so far did seem to indicate that these peoples did not use chakra to augment strength. Their strength came solely from their unassisted muscles at natural capacities. How odd.

“Sourin-san,” she acknowledged, not lifting her voice. His eyebrows furrowed at her accent, but he didn’t say anything for a moment. He weighed her up- and seemed to reserve judgment himself. His eyes passed over Itachi easily enough, but his assessment of Kisame was slightly different- she registered a moment of sheer surprise at his bulk. Konan repressed a smile as Sourin-san looked back to her and inclined his head ever so slightly. To her eye, it was apparent that he had found some sort of assurance in Kisame-san’s presence.

“I am at your service, Lady Konan.” That said, he turned away to speak to Saru-man-san. She easily caught the moment he realized that their host had completely dismissed him in favor of a book. Sourin-san’s eyes tightened, dislike apparent. He could not be blamed. Saru-man-san’s behavior was a provocation. Still, his voice was level enough. “Saruman. I know nothing of these people who you would have travel with my kith and kin. You ask much of me.”

She waited patiently.

Saru-man-san dismissed Sourin-san’s concerns, deliberately holding his head to emphasize the way that he looked down on Sourin-san. “This is your quest, Thorin Oakenshield, and I have duties that keep me here. Rest assured that the lady Konan’s people come with the highest recommendation. I have heard great things about her people.”

That required her to intentionally still her face. She was not entirely certain that he was aware he had hired a criminal organization, judging by the sweeping manner in which he referred to all the peoples of a large continent that included nations inhabited by shinobi, samurai, ranging warriors, and civilians. Saru-man-san did not seem more than passing familiar with the government of the shinobi countries.

“I am to risk the fate of my people on your word.” Sourin-san reiterated, voice somehow dropping even further to scrape against the floor.

In lieu of answer, Saru-man-san extracted a long piece of paper and slammed the book shut with a thud that sent dust floating out. He crisply unfolded it to reveal even writing that Konan could not read at all, even when he laid it flat on the table.

Her jaw clenched in irritation. She had been studying the language for months and with single-minded intensity after the second change of ships had granted her fellow passengers fluent in this common tongue, but she recognized nothing but the most general of characters.

It was a small comfort that at least she was better at speaking in this new language than Itachi-san. He could parrot phrases, but the smallest deviation presented significant difficulty for him. Kisame-san’s more openly communicative mannerisms had granted him the leniency of using gestures and expressions to make up for the gaps when words were lost, but Itachi-san had as little ability to nonverbally communicate as she possessed.

Sourin-san cast a dour look at Saru-man-san, but placed his palms flat on the table to examine what had to be their contract. “This is not what I would have written,” he critiqued.

“The lady Konan comes from distant lands,” Saru-man-san deflected, rubbing the length of his staff. “This contract was negotiated with the aid of translators to the specifications of her homeland’s highest authority. Surely you would not ask her to sign and negotiate a contract that she is unable to read.”

The look Sourin-san gave her was openly surprised, seeming to contrast the fine material of her clothing and the delicate decoration in her hair against her illiteracy. “No,” he conceded, giving her a perfunctory nod. “Of course not.”

She weighed that kindness against what Saru-man-san had said about the unreasonable nature of Sourin-san’s people, and wondered at what had embittered him against the duwaruves.

Sourin-san straightened. “There is no mention of compensation.”

“I thought it best to allow you to offer what you would. Gold is not my concern.”

It was obvious that an insult was hidden in those words by the color rising in Sourin-san’s face, but he restrained himself. “You should take care with those words. One might mistakenly take meaning that you trust dwarves to handle dwarven affairs.”

“Only if they are very stupid,” Saru-man-san rejoinded in a voice like the softest fur. Konan nearly melted into it before she caught herself, lured in by something much like the silkiest genjutsu.

Sourin-san appeared unaffected by honeyed tones, stalwart in dislike and unsurprised by the open insult. “Of course.” His nostrils flared. His coat spun with the motion when he turned to face Konan head on, the side of his face to Saru-man-san. “I had expected one addition to our party, and am prepared to negotiate as such.”

That direct nature did seem to align with what Saru-man-san had said of duwaruves’ dependability. She flared her fingers palms up, spread out to indicate acquiescence and unity with her soldiers at either side. “That is acceptable. We are as one entity.”

He nodded, hair swinging over his shoulders. “As you say. Your reward shall be one fourteenth of the wealth of Erebor.”

Konan nearly choked.

Surprise must have been open on her face, because the tightness in Sourin-san’s features eased. He glanced to the paperwork, made a well-hidden grimace, and then signed it. After his name he wrote two more sets of symbols that must have been the contacts who would assume responsibility for delivering payment if he died in the mission, but she could not read them. She would have to ask.

“Balin will not be pleased with me for signing this,” Sourin-san said in an undertone that conveyed a wry sort of amusement at what seemed a bleak prospect. His lips twitched upward, nearly concealed in the shadow of his dark hair.

This Balin seemed like a reasonable person. She would have to watch out for him.

“If your business is concluded, I much desire to return to my work,” Saru-man-san interrupted, sounding bored. “I tire of the hospitality of men.” His thumb ran up the side of his staff, clearly deriving comfort from the tool. “Remember what I have said about Rivendell, Master Oakenshield. It will be on your head.”

There was murder in Sourin-san’s eyes, but he said nothing. It was a tight, angry silence that may as well have been a declaration of dislike.

After a long moment, Saru-man-san gave Konan a quick smile. “Very well then. I leave you in Master Oakenshield’s capable hands, my lady. It is my hope that you enjoy great success on your mission, for all of our sakes.”

The four people remaining in the room did not speak until the door had closed behind the gangly old man.

Kisame-san spoke first, tone falsely thoughtful. “He seemed nice.”

Konan closed her eyes and pressed her lips further together for a moment to keep from responding or putting her palm to her face. She opened her eyes to see Sourin-san’s puzzled and disgruntled expression, a furrow in his thick brow while he gazed up, up, up at Kisame-san. “Forgive my comrade,” she apologized, the thick syllables rolling off her tongue at about half the speed that Kisame-san had muttered in their native language. “Kisame-san does not speak Wesuturon. He and Itachi-san will be accompanying us.” 

She gestured to each man as she spoke to ensure that Sourin-san could correctly attribute names to faces. Kisame-san offered a toothy smile when she indicated him, outdone a moment later when Itachi pressed his palms to his thighs and gave a polite bow. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he murmured, head lifting.

She could see the wheels turning in their client’s mind, assigning a judgment to the youth. Sourin-san clearly recognized the statement as a greeting and gave a measured nod in response.

He was less dismissive than Saru-man-san. That would make him a less unpleasant traveling companion.

“They are great warriors from my homelands,” Konan explained. He had probably already assumed as much. “They serve Pein-sama, as do I.”

He would not understand the slight stretch of the truth. Itachi-san and Kisame-san were not true devotees of Pein-sama, but it would cause no harm to simplify matters.

“I feel at a disadvantage for knowing so little of your people. You will have to talk with my advisor. He will be intrigued.” Sourin-san’s eyes were lingering on Kisame-san, clearly cognizant of the strength in his powerful frame and the man-sized sword over his back. Clearly, Kisame-san’s intimidating appearance was conveyed across language barriers, as she had hoped. She did not smile.

“I am similarly eager to familiarize myself with the strength of duwaruven warriors,” she lied smoothly, knowing that he likely had pride in his people and would believe that outsiders should be intrigued or intimidated. It was the way of warriors. Sourin-san gave her a long look, but nodded as if he had expected as much.

She had no fear of those who did not use chakra. The task that they would find impossible would be negligible for one of her capabilities. When she had been told that they would be required to bring death to a dragon, Konan had felt mild concern until she realized there had been an error in translation. How could one kill a powerful river spirit? Entrap, perhaps, but somehow render mortal?

A lizard of fire was a much more reasonable prospect, and it would be pleasant to have an opportunity to engage in aerial combat.

Sourin-san did not seem inclined to conversation. He gave only the briskest of indications that they should follow before setting off at a pace with long strides that betrayed his lack of affection for their settings. The coastal city that she had arrived in held a salty chill in the air that she found familiar after the long trip, but Sourin-san’s body language tightened when they stepped into the open air. Clearly, then, he was ill suited to the cold.

She followed without comment. Sourin-san cleared a path through the uncomfortably tall denizens, head held high. A group of men stopped, one pointing directly at Sourin-san with an openly hostile scowl. She did not understand his shouted words, but they were likely unfavorable. Interesting. She would have thought that her retinue’s cloaks of fine material and saturated color was the most deserving source of stares, but Sourin-san seemed as much a curiosity as she was. For all intents and purposes he hardly seemed aware of the stares that the group drew, implacable and regal. He was accustomed to being a center of attention, then.

Though he was not unaffected, Konan mused. As they walked, his composure became colder and colder, until his aura verged on haughtily unapproachable instead of the professional distance he had begun with. He did not like the stares, then. Or perhaps his stiffness was due to the humiliating fact that he was obviously leading them away from the affluent area that Saru-man-san had summoned them to in exchange for another part of town with narrower, dirtier streets. That did not bode well for their payment.

She frowned and felt a slight wrinkle form in the skin around her mouth. She immediately cleared her face and did not look at Itachi’s youthful complexion, unmarred except for the oddly endearing markings he had had since she met him at age thirteen.

After what she was fairly certain were several wrong turns and accidental detours down curved side streets, Sourin-san eventually led them to a squat building. He pushed open a door that was much too tall with little difficulty. Ambient noise from a fairly rowdy crowd drifted in from another room, but all that she could see was a thick desk.

At the sound of the bell hanging on the door, a woman ducked into the room. Her eyes instantly narrowed, weighing them up. Her twitch betrayed slight surprise at Konan’s hair, an apparent oddity among these drab people. Had Konan not been trained in the art of observation she might have taken the friendly tone and warm smile offered next as genuine. “Good evening, gentlemen and milady. How many rooms will you be needing?” She hovered patiently with a quill in hand over a large book of some sort.

“I have already taken out two rooms,” Sourin-san said dismissively, continuing to walk. He paused for a moment, looking backwards. “I came here with two dwarves, one of fair hair and one dark. Do you know where they are?”

The professional smile faltered, a blush dusting across a nose that had a charming quirk from a former break. “They are in the aleroom.”

Sourin-san did not seem surprised by either the statement or the hint of impropriotus behavior. “I see. Why did I not anticipate that?”

Judging from the beleaguered look of him, he _had_ anticipated that.

“Uncle!”

They had barely cleared the doorway when a shout she couldn’t entirely understand rang out. Konan’s eyes caught the likely culprit, a youth with guiltily wide eyes and a dented tankard clutched in one hand, at the exact moment that someone jerked in surprise and fell backwards off the table with wheeling arms. The crowd roared with alcohol-fueled laughter, a warm soundwave of sour breath.

Konan deliberately closed off her breath to her nose and settled her gaze back on her employer. He did not seem pleased. The boy who had fallen off the table rolled over his shoulder and leapt to his feet, blushing with tangled hair. He locked shoulders with the wary blond, trying to recapture a measure of dignity as Sourin-san stalked over.

“These are yours, then?” Konan asked, not bothering to hide that she was amused. It was good to see that others also experienced difficulties keeping their employees in line.At times she began to feel that Hidan-san was less a person and more a personal punishment for her lifelong wrong-doings.

“My sister’s sons,” Sourin-san replied, tone as dark and closed as his expression. The boys winced.

“Oh,” she said simply, sympathy gone. She knew nothing of that. Itachi-san was the closest thing to a child she had ever taken under her wing, and her mentorship in those years had been limited to advising he maintain careful distance from Orochimaru. It seemed probable that Sourin-san’s emotional investment in these young men was of a different sort. “I have no experience with children.”

Well. She _did_ have experience in killing children, as most shinobi did. It was an unavoidable consequence of how early shinobi careers began. But that final solution did not seem likely to be Sourin-san's intended response to his nephews' troublemaking.

The dark-haired child made a muffled sound, indignant response trapped under his brother’s palm. The blond youth did not seem any more pleased by her statement, despite his prudence. He tilted his head back to meet her eyes steadily. They were not the only ones to take offense. Or perhaps it was guilt that compelled her client to speak up.

“They are not children,” Sourin-san defended, angry. His eyes were accusatory, his words obviously practiced. It was readily apparent that this was an argument he had given before. “In years of man, they would be considered of sixteen and eighteen years of age. Their foolishness is not to be blamed on their youth.”

The boys had been straightening, but at that, humiliation slumped their spines once again.

“I meant no criticism,” Konan said mildly. “My people send much younger into battle.” She nodded to Itachi-san, her prime example. “Itachi-san came into my service at the age of thirteen, although he had been shinobi for years prior. Kisame-san dealt his first death at eight. We were all trained in battle even as we learned to speak.” She had thought to pacify their pride with this shared aspect of their cultures, but was met with open-mouthed horror from all three duwarves.

Kisame-san shifted from one foot to the other in the silence that followed. “Did I miss something?” he murmured, indulging in their native tongue.

Konan let her right shoulder shrug nearly imperceptibly, knowing that he would catch the motion.

Who knew? These people were odd.


	3. Chapter 3

The only conversation Sourin-san had with her on the first day of travel was to establish that Firi-san and then Kiri-san were the secondary clients on their contract. He didn’t have to clarify that their safety was paramount. The worry in his eyes when he watched Kiri-san frolic was telling enough.

When they left through a wild wood, the dark-haired child, Kiri-san, couldn’t keep his eyes off the Akatsuki. Sourin-san stared grimly forward, and Firi-san took every opportunity to range ahead to bring down game with his little knives, but Kiri-san was much too eager and interested to pretend indifference.

Something uncomfortably like a maternal instinct was swelling, encouraging her to pull him aside when Sourin-san was occupied and allow him to ask his questions. He seemed so young. Had she ever been so wide-eyed and guileless? It was clear that he needed a guiding hand.

Konan accordingly gave him a wide berth, because there would be no mentoring on this trip.

Their travel passed in near silence, as Sourin-san’s posture gradually relaxed by insignificant increments. Firi-san relaxed in response and stopped hitting his brother whenever Kiri-san attempted to speak to them.

On their third day of walking, Thursday the 23rd, Itachi-san asked Firi-san what day it was to practice his speaking.

Firi-san cast his eyes to the sky to think a moment. “It’s Thursday the 23rd.”

The next morning after that, Firi-san wandered over to Itachi-san and offered, “Good morning.”

Itachi-san brightened at the approach, though the signs were subtle. “Yes,” he agreed. “It is nice day out.” He waited.

Firi-san’s eyebrows twitched upwards, he gave Itachi-san a pleasant –if distant- smile, and said, “Yes. Good talk.” And he walked away.

They were transcending _all sorts_ of cultural boundaries. Itachi-san would be making friends his age any day now, she could feel it in her bones. If only Pein-sama could be here to see the boy thrive.

Privately, Konan thought that being among these odd foreigners and living in near silence was making her a little strange.

They stopped in a filthy little hole not dissimilar to the pub where they had first stayed with Sourin-san and his nephews. Sleeping outside again would be preferable. Konan’s lip curled, but she followed without comment. It would be unprofessional to balk at the accommodations provided by their clientele, and unwise besides. The rest of the duwaruves who were accompanying them were meant to assemble here.

They trickled into the bar in groups of two or three, elbowing each other and knocking foreheads together and shouting in a clipped, guttural language that Konan had never heard before.

Sourin-san glared at them for it.

They switched back to the language that she had been studying, which did make eavesdropping easier. Haven’t seen you in a caves year-gotten fatter-homely as ever-how did that grump Thorin find a lady friend-what an-bit skinny though-

Wait. What? Konan blinked and glared at the offender, a white-haired man with a large red nose, but she did not frown as sternly as she wanted to. She imagined that any woman who had committed herself to Sourin-san would appear terribly sour, and she did not wish to feed that particular rumor.

The duwaruves were an odd lot- much odder than Sourin-san and his nephews appeared to her eyes. Sourin-san was the tallest of the lot, although a bald and heavily tattooed man nearly matched his height. All of them were broad shouldered with deep-set brows and noses that were larger than she thought decent. Three of them shared the same hooked nose- relations of some sort, no doubt, although the youngest of that group had the slightest build of all the duwaruves she had encountered.

The proprietress bustled around and attempted to restore order, but gave it up as a bad job. The old, gossipy duwaruve gave her a mildly pitying look and tossed her an extra coin. She took it and left, closing the doors firmly behind on the raucous group. If only Konan could do the same.

“These are the specialists that Saruman found for us.” Sourin-san sounded disgusted, but she did not take it personally. “They come from distant Western lands. This is the Lady Konan, their leader.” He gave her an entirely unfriendly nod. “Itachi-san. Kisame-san. This is my company.” Then Sourin-san sat down.

A red-headed duwaruve shot Sourin-san a mildly incredulous look. He started off a round of self introductions, a babble of rhyming names and ‘at your service’.

She retained none of it. She was not interested, and Itachi-san would have caught all the names. She could confer with him at a later time if it became relevant.

“May I ask a question?” She turned to see the duwarve with the strange religious headgear bob in a rough but well-meant bow in her team’s general vicinity, warped and calloused hands spread out wide. His voice was friendly, if a bit fast as it trundled up and down in pitch cheerily.

His words made no sense.

“Brothers or cousins? Begging your pardon, sirs, but there’s not much of a family resemblance.”

Well, that couldn’t be what he’d said. Konan felt her brow wrinkle. And to think she had thought that her language skills had been improving rapidly. She looked at Kisame, who was tilting his head to the side like a dog straining to hear, confusion apparent in his eyes.

The duwaruves within earshot jerked when she glanced at them. They were clearly interested in this response.

Then she looked at Itachi. Itachi had the same unsmiling ambivalence on his face he’d had on all day. He probably hadn’t understood a word of that.

“Pardon?” She felt confused beyond measure. “None of us are related.”

Firi-san’s eyebrows shot up, but it was Kiri-san who burst out, “But their names end the same!” He gestured to his brother. “We thought your people named family members the same way we do.”

‘Itachi’ and ‘Kisame’ didn’t end the same-

“San is a title,” Konan bit out stiffly, fighting down hysterical laughter at just how very far from home she was. She had seen all the countries of the Elemental Nations but she had never met a person who did not recognize the most common and basic of all honorifics.

Kiri-san seemed more intrigued, if anything. “What does it mean?” He asked, leaning forward into her personal space. He was probably close enough to smell her perfume. Intolerable.

She narrowed her eyes at him and waited.

He flushed. He took a step back, reestablishing her personal space.

Only then did she deign to answer. “It is how you refer to someone of equal or lesser status whom with you do not have a significant closeness attachment.”

There were a few looks exchanged, and then a tentatively offered, “You mean like ‘Mister’ or ‘Master’?

That was what that meant? That explained some things. ‘Mister’ had seemed to be a terribly common name. Konan gave one brisk nod that did not display her own ignorance.

“Oh.” Kiri-san deflated, shoulders slumping. Then he looked up and blinked, flashing surprisingly pretty blue eyes. “Does that mean we’re not close, Konan-san?” The other duwaruves either groaned or guffawed at his flirtaciousness, but she grimaced.

“Not Konan-san,” Kisame-san broke in, lip curled. The duwaruves stilled. “Konan- _sama_.”

“What does that one mean?” Firi-san’s moustache braids swung when he turned his head to the side, not hiding that he was as curious as his brother.

This foreign land was not the place for discussions of the glory of Pein-sama. She blinked slowly without breaking eye contact. He did not look away. The other duwaruves began to shift uncomfortably. Neither of them looked away. She smiled, keeping the rest of her face still and cold. He looked away, and did not ask again.

Traveling with such a large group changed the experience. Not even Sourin-san could quell cheer and conversation among a group of twelve duwaruves, apparently. There were few complaints about the pace he set for travel on barbarous native animals, but she gathered that the duwaruves found it to be brutal. For her, it was a pleasant enough run, no matter how the duwaruves gaped and asked if she wasn’t getting weary, no really milady, you have nothing to prove, should we take a break?

Konan refused out of hand to sit on such a foul-smelling animal and Kisame-san would have broken the spine of his mount had he tried, but Itachi-san bowed to the native culture’s habits and obligingly enough sat like a sack of rice flour. By the second day, she could see that he bit down grimaces at the experience.

She found herself splitting her team and moving about to ensure that none of her charges wandered off or hurt themselves. Duwaruves were a strange, bumbling lot. They were completely graceless until they suddenly weren’t- the one called Bomaburu had a deft, artistic hand with ingredient preparation, the one called Ori had steady enough hands to draw while on those terrible beasts, and one whose name she had forgotten entirely carved little figures to alleviate boredom during the day and left them as totems along the path at night.

The rest she did not see much merit in until the night that Sourin-san called a halt at a ruin. Kisame-san eyed the caved-in building skeptically, but was content enough to follow Firi-san and Kiri-san when they led the ponies off. She sniffed, but did not comment at the fruit rations he had hidden in the pockets of his cloak. A fondness for foul creatures was not likely to be Kisame-san’s downfall. As far as quirks went among her personnel, his were perhaps the least offensive.

An hour later, Kisame-san came back into sight with a protesting duwaruve over each shoulder. Sourin-san shouted in fury, jumping to his feet to protest the treatment of his nephews.

“Two large enemies took ponies,” Kisame-san confided lazily, looking only to her. He completely ignored the camp full of duwaruves who were bristling with aggression at his manhandling their comrades. “The children wanted to stop them or follow. I stopped them. Didn’t think it was a good idea to let them get crushed.”

“Aa, I see.” Konan turned to Sourin-san and cleared her throat to get his attention. He barely glanced at her, but she related what Kisame-san had said.

Axes lowered.

“Trolls, uncle!” Kiri-san twisted as best as he could, trying to face his leader. Kisame-san turned obligingly to the side. Kiri-san patted Kisame-san’s shoulder in thanks. “Two enormous trolls.” He sounded more thrilled than anything. “They took Minty and Bombur’s mount. We have to fight them!”

Kisame-san rolled his eyes, but picked up a duwaruve in each hand by their coats and set them down on the ground with exquisite gentleness.

“Minty?” Sourin-san’s tone was gruff enough that it had to be concealing distress.

Of course, she realized. He did spend a concerning amount of time brushing burrs off of his foul-smelling animal companion, and she had noticed that Minty ate more apples than Sourin-san did.

The other duwaruves exchanged looks, clearly thinking the same thing she was. Sourin-san was not half so subtle as he thought he was. A few grips had turned white-knuckled.

“Trolls?” Duwarin-san spat on the ground, breaking the tense silence. “We know what happened to these humans, then.” He gestured to the wooden skeleton of a home. “Trolls prey on the weak.”

“Aye,” Barin-san agreed slowly, carefully not looking at his leader. “Foul beasts. Like as not they came down from the mountains. They’ll keep moving towards populated areas.”

“Unless we stop them?” Ori-san squeaked, bravado painfully false. Poor thing. Like a genin ready for his first kill.

Sourin-san scanned his people’s faces, searching for something. He must have found what he was looking for, because he broke out into a grim smile. “I’ll not have it said that the company of Thorin Oakenshield left monsters to catch and kill the helpless when they had a chance to stop them.”

The group roared with approval, which, frankly, Konan thought was an inadvisable course of action. It never hurt to be stealthy. She cleared her throat softly. “Ah, Sourin-san?” she tried. “Perhaps my team could handle this matter.”

She had operated under contracts that specified her pay was docked for every lost life among her charges. That was not in this agreement, but the sentiment of resentment levied for every deceased duwarve likely remained. Amegakure would benefit from a more permanent alliance from the prosperous peoples of this continent if it could be managed.

There was a moment of silence, and then a quiet, “bless her heart, she’s willing to take on trolls for us? Thorin’s done better than I thought.”

Her eye twitched.

Sourin-san, who apparently had the poor hearing of his fellow duwaruves, merely cast her a rare grin. “A generous offer, Lady. But not one I would accept. We will fight as comrades, doing equal work.”

…He wished that she only match his efforts? What a strange employer. Why bring her along at all?

Her brow furrowed, but she stepped back and followed his lead. She walked close enough to Itachi-san and Kisame-san to give her orders not to prevent the duwaruves from participating by ending the altercation too decisively. They were confused, but professional enough not to show it.

As it turned out, allowing the duwaruves to show their mettle had not been an entirely useless exercise. After the fight, there was an off-putting amount of back-slapping among the duwaruves and even companionably applied to Itachi-san and Kisame-san along with compliments about the way Kisame-san had lopped off a foot and left a troll hopping. Konan stared down anyone who stepped too close to her with a raised hand. They thought better of it and nodded to her instead.

Touchy-feeling as they undoubtedly were, duwaruves were not as defenseless as she had wondered. Although they could use no jutsu, they did well enough against the three- not two after all- trolls. Most of them showed the grace and coordination that they had seemed so sadly lacking in their travels so far, ranking in her estimations as roughly chuunin. Sourin-san appeared to have been selected as the head of the party based on his combat proficiency. She was politely impressed to see that even without so much as a whisper of channeled chakra, he had the speed and reflexes of a Jounin. It would be an odd Jounin who achieved their rank with no abilities in genjutsu or ninjutsu, mind, but not completely implausible.

Of course, the thinly veiled rescue mission for Minty was a loss anyway what with the fact that he was half in a stewpot and half in a pen, an apparently tragic waste of a pony’s life. Kiri-san grumbled that the stew didn’t even have the decency to smell remotely appealing before Firi-san elbowed his ribs.

Sourin-san was inconsolably grumpy about the loss for weeks as he covered the plains on the back of Konan’s mount. Of course, Minty’s fate may not have been the sole or even primary influence. His temper may have merely been rising with proximity to their next destination. She gathered that he wasn’t best pleased about the place that Saru-man-san had warned him to visit as they parted company.

“Damned elves,” Sourin-san said under his breath for what had to have been the fourth time that hour. He was not talking to anyone else. He was at the head of the party, and under the clear impression that no one could hear his dark muttering.

Fifteen minutes later-

“Damned elves.”

Konan turned her face to the wilderness and rolled her eyes.


	4. Konan vs Wildlife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Konan is really starting to despise this place. Why didn't she send Kakuzu to suffer here, again?

The sloping mountainsides turned to hills spotted with craggy rocks as the duwaruves and Itachi-san bounced along on the animals. Kisame-san and Konan ran on their own two legs with dignity and attempted not to look more smug than was absolutely necessary.

Konan took a deep breath when they stopped for the night, filling her lungs with fresh, sweet air. Some of the hardy plant stalks swaying in the wind were some sort of herb- they scented the air in a way that was lightly refreshing. It almost blocked out her body odor. It couldn’t do anything about the stench of hairy men in fur and leather. After weeks of travel, the ponies were now the least offensive members of the party, and they had actual feces stuck in the fur of their horrible behinds.

The duwaruves were not quite as foul-smelling as the dank cave that the trolls had been squatting in, but they were too comparable for her comfort. The last stream of any consequence had been the carefully directed one watering unkempt fields once tended by a farmer whose bones decorated a troll-hoard. That had been well over two weeks ago. The last fjord they had crossed had been a pitiful two-foot trench that had not been suitable for more than refilling their water skins and splashing over faces. Itachi-san had been fastidious enough to strip down to his leggings and attempt to scrub off his uniform while the duwaruves gawked and mumbled in their native language.

She chose not to wonder what had been so surprising about his unmarred skin and protruding ribs.

If Pein-sama were here, he could create a rain that stretched for miles in every direction. The duwaruves might grumble and curse as their campfire sizzled out, but they would have no idea that action had been taken to rectify their pitiful state.

Kisame-san was also a powerfully competent user of water techniques. Pity that he was scouting ahead with Firi-san for tracks that could lead to a meat for their dinner.

Of course, Konan had lived in the land of Rain for more than thirty years. She did have minimal proficiency with water jutsu herself. She could create rain, but it would be visibly unnatural when the stormcloud for miles only permeated the skies that the company traveled. It would unnerve and displease her clientele.

On the other hand, it might do something about the smell.

She turned her body away and channeled chakra to her hands and lungs, holding her breath to work. Konan built up the pressure, spinning currents in her air reserves. She was seeing dark spots by the time she began making hand-signs. One, two, three- five-nine-and at the twelfth handsign she tilted her head back and exhaled, filling the atmosphere with the powerful water-natured chakra she had formed in her body. She maintained a tight grip on it as it lifted, feeding off of the healthy plants at her feet and the moisture in the air. It grew and grew and condensed into what she knew would be an intimidatingly solid and lumpy cloud floating less than one hundred feet above the company’s heads.

“Stones! What’s that!”

She recognized the alarmed shout as belonging to the duwaruve with the floppy headgear, but other voices quickly broke in with amazement and confusion. She chanced a glance skyward.

The stormcloud was slate gray and pitifully small, positioned directly over the company. The rest of the sky was still the clear, wispy blue of fading sunlight without so much as a hint of cloud cover to be seen. There was _no possibility_ of denial that the cloud was unnatural.

Her lips twitched.

The cloud burst. Water condensed and cascaded from the heavens like it had been dropped from a bucket.

Kiri-san gave a surprised screech and fell onto his ass, dark hair plastered to his skull and smelly leathers clinging to his skin. His fellows were much the same, without the muddy asses, of course.

Konan had known to tilt her head down, letting the torrent pull through her hair instead of beating on her face. Much better.

When the two dry men returned, it was to a soggy and disgruntled camp with no fire for the ungulate slung over Kisame’s shoulder. Firi-san poked at the mud beneath his boot questioningly, but Kisame-san snorted and turned a toothy grin to Konan, wiggling his eyebrows in the direction of Itachi-san. Itachi-san was still sulking and wringing out his hair.

She avoided Kisame-san’s eyes for the next day, keeping her face grimly unaffected and nodding occasionally while the duwaruves theorized about Elvish witchcraft and the displeasure of heaven.

The status quo was broken by a distant scream the following evening- a short series of words that Konan couldn’t make out. The company locked in place, reaching for weapons.

The plain was eerily silent. The voice lifted again in obvious distress, but it was much closer this time. Kiri-san pulled the bow off his back and notched it, putting his back warily to his kin and facing the direction the sound had come from.

Ori shifted his feet and muttered, “Never seen nothing like that before.” He was more intrigued than fearful or suspicious.

His fellows ignored the boy’s tone.

“What on Mahal’s sweet earth?” Barin-san breathed, wrinkled brow furrowed. “Do you see that?”

“A sled,” Sourin-san determined. “I know of none who would travel in that way.” He glared at the dark figure arcing in their direction. “Kili.”

The young duwaruve nodded, pulled his arm back, and let an arrow fly. The next scream was wordless fear. The sled jerked in direction, racing away from the company. “I didn’t hit it,” Kiri-san said softly, watching it leave with narrowed eyes. “Just a warning shot ahead of it.”

His uncle nodded and clapped a hand on his back. “Well done. We need no borrowed trouble. We already travel to the refuge of our enemies.” His dark tone was enough to quell the beaming smile Kiri-san’s face had pulled into, but the boy was still pleased by the praise. “Come.” Sourin-san pushed his sword back into the sheath and shouldered his pack. “We will travel through the night.”

“Aye. Who knows what that was, or what it was runnin’ from.” Duwarin-san rolled his shoulder and cracked his knuckles. “Let’s get moving, gents.”

“And lady.” Kiri-san was recovered enough to send Konan a cheeky wink.

Duwarin-san grunted noncommittally, as if that had yet to be established. With Duwarin-san at the head of the party and Sourin-san casting grim stares over their backs, the company set off. It was slow, hard going leading tired ponies over nearly invisible dangers in the dark, and the normal conversation of a day’s travel was exchanged for moody silence and occasional curses.

They had been right to keep moving, but it wasn’t enough. Before dawn streaked through the sky, a thin, high howl wailed through the air.

An inu?

“Warg!” Sourin-san bellowed, alerting anyone who had been nodding off on their feet. His fellows jerked to awareness.

“Where is it coming from?” Barin-san spun, trying to pinpoint the origin of the sound. Konan raised an eyebrow and pointed. He followed the direction she indicated, frowned-

And then another howl came from the way she’d indicated.

Barin-san gave her a wry nod and a slightly mocking question. “I don’t suppose you have any tricks that tell you how many orcs we face?”

“We should run.” Sourin-san sounded as though the words physically pained him. “We are not in a defensible position and we number only fifteen. An orc pack is beyond our ability to match.”

Orcs? What are orcs? She thought that was the call of a ‘warg’? Before she could ask the question, the group was leaping up onto their ponies and picking up the pace. Their mounts breathed heavily and spittle flew before long, ponies pushed cruelly beyond their limits.

It was for naught. The yowls of the animals-wargs, they were wargs- was much closer on their heels now, and voices were discernible. Ah. Orcs trained wargs in the way that Duwaruves trained ponies, Konan realized.

“We cannae outrun them!” Barin’s voice was hoarse. There was just enough light to see the tortured look that Sourin-san gave his nephews’ backs.

She rolled her eyes. The dramatics were unnecessary and unbecoming.

“Kisame-san, prevent them from stopping,” she ordered. Konan stopped running and calmly turned to face the threat that had Sourin-san so distressed. They came into clear view a minute later, at the same instant that a cry of alarm rang out from the duwaruves at her absence.

Perhaps twenty skeletal figures atop _yet more ugly wildlife_ crested the hills. This would be a refreshing exercise. Konan let her chakra waver and split into fine slivers, lifted her sleeves, and directed an opening wave of sharp-winged paper butterflies on a cutting collision course to test her enemies.

One orc laughed and then gargled in blood. He clutched his throat. One attempted to cut through her origami art with his axe, but was too slow. Black blood flew, staining the sky. She'd thought that would the end of things. A warg stumbled and fell for good, but the rest continued to charge.

Konan's eyes went wide. She'd seen _several_ blows that should be fatal. Hastily, she pulled to retract her paper. It was stuck.

Her heart thumped. What were these people? No blood should stick and slick like oil. She tugged again, feeling paper struggle for freedom in some horrible glutinous plasma. It was already congealing! The wargs were even worse than the orcs, inches and inches of thick muscle and sturdy bones to get in her way.

She abandoned that paper as a lost cause and scraped off layers of her flesh for additional weaponry.Her paper art had not been a total failure. It had cut flesh. She had merely underestimated what it would take to cripple these orcs. She would need a more calculated target to preserve her weaponry. Conservation was not a normal consideration among her tactics, but she could be precise if she liked.

Only a breath before the front-runner reached her, sword ready to swing, white wings burst from her back and Konan leapt directly upwards. The paper she'd borrowed off of her forearms was honed and as chakra-coated as she could manage, so she directed the spray in a much more concentrated burst this time to test exactly what it would take to finish an orc. In the distance, she could see that the rider who had lost their warg had rolled the corpse off and stumbled to its feet- clearly, they were hardy folk.

The orc that had attempted to cut her down stopped its warg and stared up at her in awe and fury. She was too far to see the details of its face or even discern a gender, but she could tell where the basic features were located. Konan straightened one arm to point directly at the easy target and sent origami darts boring through an eye into the brain.That worked.

The orc slumped in the saddle, body hanging off to the side, secured by the stirrups. The warg screamed and shook, attempting to dislodge the limp weight.

She had a moment of satisfaction, before she realized that the duwaruves had turned about. Sourin-san led the charge, far ahead of his fellows. He had abandoned his poor tired pony- likely deciding that the gift of height was not a fair trade for the danger of bringing a nervous pack animal into battle.

He should not have had enough opportunity to approach danger. Most unsatisfactory. Had she used more precision, her clients would not be risking themselves against this unnatural enemy. This time, she did not even attempt to retrieve her weaponry. It was a loss. Her face tightened in stress, but she peeled and plucked paper from her sides and legs and forearms and shot it off again, and again, and again.

She'd bored through seven skulls' worth of grey matter before Sourin-san met the now riderless warg with a shout and raised sword. He cut it down with a surgeon's precision, she noticed, now that she was attempting to pick up on how the locals were killed. Sourin-san didn't make the easy cut- he tilted the blade to sever through over a foot of muscle to cut what she supposed must be the spinal cord. Then he whipped around to bring his sword horizontally through the next creature that leapt at him and bayed for his blood. The cut was clean and beautiful, a perfect arc of caught sunlight and flung blood.

What extraordinary strength.

Her lips quirked. If she finished the orcs before they could use their mounted height against Sourin-san, he could use his clear experience to eliminate the wargs.

The only hiccup in that plan was the two arrows that her second-to-last target suddenly sprouted from his right eye and jugular. She wasn't the first to discover that scrambling their brains worked, then. Konan finished the final orc, waited a moment, and then altered the direction of her feathers's trajectory and floated down.

Sourin-san turned to meet her with a blade still dripping slow blood, expression clean. His still manner was entirely unlike the whooping laughter and surprised eyes of the duwaruves too late to join in the scuffle.

"What a lassie!" Gloin waved his axe at her, all but bouncing on his heels. "Me wife Bramda couldnae a done any better!" That was met by cheerful jeers and comically fluttered eyelashes, for some reason.

Konan's brow furrowed. She hadn't understood most of what the man had said through the enthusiastic accent.

"Lady Konan." Sourin-san looked at her through slightly squinted eyes, shaking his head. He looked as though he was attempting to bore into her head and pick her apart. "I have never seen anything quite like that. Perhaps you knew what you were doing, but things might have ended differently, had this been an actual pack as we feared and not merely a scouting party." He seemed to be testing her.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Konan-sama is impressive." Itachi-san seemed much more comfortable dismounted. He had been regretting his polite acquiescence to the pony selected for him nearly since the moment he'd climbed on its back.

Sourin-san shot the boy an oddly fierce look, displeased and distracted from their staring match. For some reason, Firi-san flushed and tugged on Itachi-san's elbow. "Let's go check the ponies, shall we?"

True despair washed over Itachi-san's face at the thought of approaching the animals again, but he followed. The duwaruves were oblivious to his torment.

Konan didn't quite have the energy to be amused at whatever was going on, light-headed as she was. Her paper was made out of her own flesh. Underneath her cloak, she had shrunk and slimmed past a point that was ideal. She gave another tug at her paper, hoping to retrieve something. Bits and pieces tore through the air to her, pitiful scraps accompanied by only one whole piece of art out of the tens of hundreds she had sent to battle. She reached out a hand to catch the butterfly, flicked brackish blood off with her finger, and then slipped it into her hair. The rest she pulled up her sleeves and attempted to distribute over her body. It was a thin plaster over her weakness.

"You do not look well." Oin-san held his hands out in a gesture of peace. "Would you mind if I take a look at you, Lady?"

Her reflex was to snarl. Losing blood and flesh did no wonders for her temper. Konan restrained the impulse and shook her head. "Do not. My body is not like your body." 

A dwarf she did not remember said something in an undertone that caused Ori to flush purple and elbow him. She decided that ignorance would be preferable.

Oin-san sighed. "I believe you, though I wish t'were hogwash." He re-slung the bag that had been slipping down his thin, slumped shoulder. "Very well, then. I think a hot meal'd do you good, no matter how different you are to our folk."

He wasn't wrong, although a nice book would be even better. She nodded agreement.

"We are not so far from Rivendell." Sourin-san gave her one last searching look and turned his preternaturally resentful gaze to the direction they had been traveling. "If we push on, we can arrive before supper." He did not look like a man dreaming of hot food. He looked as though he was dutifully walking to his own execution.

The older duwaruves seemed miserably resigned to the hard, sleepless day. Firi-san and Kiri-san all but capered, occasionally joined by the pointy-haired duwaruve who Konan suspected had made a rude comment about her physique. Sourin-san cast a gimlet eye over the lot, keeping his flock on task and in a row.

Konan paid them little attention. She had much to consider. The difference between her and the opponents she faced her was not so clear-cut as she had supposed. The solution had come easily enough this time, but what of the next exotic opponent? What if she encountered many more of these orcs and spent her flesh to destroy them?

Perhaps the elemental ninjutsu of her companions would be a more suitable match for the frightfully hardy natives.....


	5. Chapter 5

Off hand, she could think of eleven ways for a team of Chuunin to destroy this poorly planned and pitifully defended settlement. She had never seen a fortress so open to the air before.

Their host arrived in a rustle of trailing robes. She noted an angular face with old, still, solemn eyes. Rather like those of a cow, really. “Welcome to Rivendell, Master Oakenshield.”

Konan weighed up the approaching man distrustfully. He sported the same unnatural elongation as Saru-man-san. After having become accustomed to the duwaruves, the deformity was all the more displeasing to the eyes.

The master of Rivendell spread his hands wide and extended his neck in the slightest of bows. “Saruman sent word of your arrival. You traveled swiftly. He is due to arrive on the morrow, and thought to arrive before your party.”

Bringing up Saru-man-san seemed to make the duwaruves’ collective mood sour even further, beards twitching down nearly in unison when all the men present scowled. That would not have been her rhetorical strategy. Elves seemed insensible. No wonder that Sourin-san held no fondness for them.

“I readily admit to my trepidation about this quest.” He fixed an intense gaze over the company. “However, the support of the head of the White Council is no small thing and I bow to Saruman’s wisdom. You shall have my aid, master dwarves.” Their elven host seemed to be looking to Sourin-san for a response.

Sourin-san took a long, calming inhalation through his nose, and swallowed audibly. “We thank you for your hospitality.” He glared as if daring their host to offer a dissenting opinion. Even the steeling to the task he’d done over the last week was not enough to clear the gruff resentment from Sourin-san’s tone. What a singularly cantankerous man. She pressed her lips together instead of smiling.

“I take it you are the lady Konan?” The master of the house fixed his still gaze on her. “I am called Lord Elrond, of the last Homely House.”

She opened her mouth for the traditional greeting hoping that their acquaintance would continue, remembered that the phrase didn’t translate well, and then fell back on something familiar. “At your service.”

There was a sussurus of duwarven chuckles behind her. Perhaps that linguistic choice had been a mistake?

Eruonde did not give a reaction. “I am pleased to meet you. Your party must be in need of rest and a meal.” He lifted his gaze to address the group as a whole. “If you would follow my steward, he would take you to rooms where you may leave your belongings, the bathing chambers, and then the dining hall.”

Konan let herself fall to the end of the group and created a bunshin in the moment that she tucked herself under a genjutsu. Her clone followed the group and would help her find those locations later. For now, however… She leapt up to the roof instead of following the duwaruves inside and swung in a window that looked promising. She frowned. She’d hoped for an office, but a lived-in bedroom could still have- Aha. Triumphant, she gently lifted the book-marked tome resting on a bedside table. It was a pretty thing, bound in elaborately painted leather. A glance at the cover’s text revealed nothing- this was written in yet another language.

Well, she hadn’t come to read it. Konan ripped the cover off, kicked it under the bed, and ate the paper in huge mouthfuls. Her body adapted eagerly, taking in the new matter. She could make paper out of regular food, but this was expedited the process significantly.

She ran her hands down her sides, probing and measuring. Well. Still a bit thin, but she was much improved. It took about four minutes, but eventually all she had in her hands was the bejeweled book marker that had been holding someone’s place. She gave it a once-over. What an extravagance.

It was a scrap of white silk rather like a hair ribbon, marked with a delicate design of miniscule blue stones secured at the end that had dangled outside of the book. Could be worth something, but it was pretty regardless. She pushed her left sleeve up and tied the ribbon like a bracelet, feeling sated and lazy.

When she rejoined the group, they were lingering distrustfully in the doorway to a suite of rooms much like the one Konan had found her pick-me-up in. She peered over their heads to see a broad arch that seemed to lead to a stone chamber. That was likely the baths, then. It would be polite to allow the much larger group to go first. But then, did she want to bathe in water that those hairy men had used?

Konan decided not. She pushed her way through the group on a straight course for hot water and soaps.

“Oi!” Someone shushed that duwarve. She didn’t turn to look.

After she had bathed for several hours, she returned to find that her companions had found bathing facilities elsewhere. Konan wrinkled her nose. They looked as though they had jumped in the bath in all their wrinkled clothes. Well. They passed for decent by what she had observed of duwaruven standards. Kisame-san was just as smug and damp, but Itachi-san stalked past her into the recently vacated bath. He was still in there when the group was called to dinner. Konan considered leaving without him, but the duwaruves lingered in some apparent nod to pack mentality in an unfriendly environs.

Dinner presented problems of its own. They were seated in a long hall with live musicians and careful candle lighting that shot veins across the shimmering fabric draped from the ceiling. It did not seem to be a dinner conducted along the same informal lines as those she had previously experienced with Sourin-san’s company. She did not wish to embarrass herself with culturally inappropriate table manners.

Konan hung back when food was served, waiting to follow the leads of her hosts. Her team copied suit. And perhaps for good reason, because none of the duwaruves took a bite or moved to serve themselves when the platter lids were removed. Her brow furrowed. They seemed highly displeased. Some even muttered in their language, pointing and scowling.

She looked at the food again. It seemed edible to her, if strangely raw and entirely lacking in rice.

“Enough.” Sourin-san seemed just as sour as his companions, but he reached out and took a single serving of what appeared to be beans, settling it on his plate with a slop. He glared daggers at it. “Fili. Kili. Eat your fill. Young dwarrow need to eat well.”

Kiri-san gave his uncle a wounded stare and gestured at the table with wide-spread fingers, lost for words. Firi-san seemed equally bereft, but miserable comprehension washed across his face a moment later. He elbowed his brother and made a point of pulling a dish close enough to pick up the serving spoon.

“I don’t want to.” Kiri-san pouted.

Firi-san’s eyebrows went dangerously high and he gave an entirely unsubtle head tilt towards Itachi-san. “Eat what’s in front of you, brother.” He dropped his voice into what he clearly thought was a subtle whisper to add, “We’re supposed to make a good example.”

A harp-song faltered just for an instant before picking up the next cascading note.

Oh god. They thought Itachi-san needed to put meat on his bones. Konan repressed a cackle and served herself some sort of red jellied fruit to keep her hands busy.

Understanding bloomed around the table a second or two after she had put things together. The duwaruves made a great show of serving themselves heaping plates of the vegetables and fruits that had been provided and pretending to eat them. Bits of tomato were thrown behind heads, green leafy spreads were slipped under the table, and Barin-san was busy attempting to conceal something orange and firm in his beard.

“Yummy,” Goroin-san said firmly, rubbing his complaining stomach and shooting Itachi-san a pointed look. “It tastes good.”

Itachi-san shot the plate of root vegetables in front of him a bewildered look, and rather helplessly moved to serve himself a mountainous portion that Konan knew he would never be able to choke down. The duwaruves gave nods of approval and little encouragements of, “That’s a good lad,” and “Ah, no fair, he’s got a little one. That’s an advantage.”

All the while, Sourin-san presided over the table without so much as pushing his food around his plate.

Duwaruves, Konan decided, were altogether strange, but ultimately well-meaning.

Bonus: Thorin’s perspective after returning from Elrond’s reading of the map.

There was yelling in the elven halls, and it wasn’t coming from his men. Thorin’s eyebrows shot up.. He took a careful step forward and peered around the corner, grip tight on Orchrist.

An elf was hurrying down the hallways backwards, arms up to protect his face. He yelped something in that strange language of his, but it didn’t deter the other elf bearing down on him wielding a blistering tirade and a scrap of leather. It made a satisfying ‘whap’ sound everytime it collided with an elven skull or forearm.

“He doesn’t look best pleased,” Balin observed mildly.

Neither elf seemed happy, but his advisor was probably not referring to the red-faced elf obviously pleading for some sort of forgiveness. The other elf’s face was contorted in white fury. If Thorin knew anything at all, that livid tone meant that some great personal offense had been committed.

“Is that a book?” Dwalin tilted his head, but displayed no real interest in the answer. “Figures. No wonder these tree fuckers have orc problems if that’s what they’re wielding.” He took off for their camp without giving the altercation a second glance.


	6. Chapter 6

“I believed that Saruman intended for me to wait to read this until his arrival,” Eruonde-san said slowly. His cow-eyes were fixed disrespectfully on Sorin's face.

 

Konan wondered at the implications of that body language. Was the tall man asserting his social superiority over Sorin-san, or were the elves merely as ill-mannered in this regard as the duwarves?

 

From the way Sorin's mouth was tight with dislike, it could have been either possibility. “I believe that Saruman offered council, not to step in as king of the dwarves. Does he tell the elves when they have his permission to interpret the writings of their fathers?” His voice had dropped into the lower, more aggressive register he favored with outsiders.

 

Konan understood about half of that. Mostly, she understood that Sorin was in a bad mood, but that he perhaps had strong reasoning on this particular instance.

 

Their host seemed to sigh. “As you say.” Eruonde reached out for the paper.

 

Sorin's fingers seemed to tighten on the material for an instant before he released it with a rustle.

 

The paper was unrolled and revealed to be a great map. Konan leaned forward, interested. It took a moment's work to identify her coastal landing point, and from there re-trace the company's path. There was the hill-land, the mountain pass, the rolling river. And there- that was the small woodland they had crossed coming east, in which Sorin had mid-way turned south and stoically pretended not to know what had happened as he led the company around the outside of the trees on the next day, bringing their path back north with only about six hours of wasted travel.

 

Konan privately reflected that she was somewhat relieved to see that Balin-san was present for this meeting and would therefore also be appraised of their route.

 

“Moon runes.” Their host's voice was low and reverent. He lifted the paper. It rustled tantalizingly, swaying in the evening wind. Her mouth watered. She followed wordlessly as Eruonde led the small party outside to a stone pavilion. “You are in luck, Thorin Oakenshield.” The night wind was eerily still, where it should have been whistling through the architecture. The silence put up the hair on the back of Konan's neck and made her wonder, once again, about what reasoning the duwarves had had to blame her water jutsu on elves.

 

“Oh?” Sorin was tense, obviously unhappy with the long fingers touching his map.

 

“This map was written by the light of a harvest moon two hundred years ago.” Eruonde looked at Sorin. “The same moon that shines down on us tonight. Perhaps you were meant to come here.”

 

Balin let out a whistling breath, cheered by this. “What were the chances, eh,” he said to Sorin in an undertone that everyone present heard.

 

The cycle of the moon repeated once every 30 days or so, Konan recalled. So. Perhaps 1 in 30, but the odds may be even better if the state of the moon the day prior and after was close enough to approximate the same moon. What a strange security feature this was. What if Sorin had needed it at a specific moment?

 

These people had an exceedingly strange sense of time and urgency. Konan would fear that she would never come to understand that perspective, but that knowledge was actually something of a comfort.

 

The map was read, Balin was thrilled, and the two kings became increasingly stiff in their disapproval of each other. When she followed her client to the quarters in which the duwarves had been cloistered, his announcement was predictable.

 

“We leave tonight.” Sorin tucked the map back in his belongings, and then bestowed a fierce expression on his subjects. “Rest while you can. They will not look for us until dinner. Once they are abed, we will depart.”

 

Konan suppressed a sigh. Yes, yes, of course they must hurry and get on their way. There was only a half a year's time left to cross a distance that genin could travail on foot in a month. The circumstances were clearly urgent.

 

Well.... She eyed their intrepid leader.

 

Surely nothing would go wrong, not while they were led by such a charming individual who befriended all he met and hardly got lost more than once a day or so.

 

Hmm. Perhaps she might ease her mind by becoming excessively prepared for the upcoming journey.

 

With that in mind, Konan made her way around the main building under cover of darkness, until she located the library. Konan left two empty covers hidden among the stacks, and liberated two more books for later snacking. She knew now to be more conservative with her art, but it would not hurt to have something other than Sorin's map for if she became desperate.

 

When she returned, the duwarves were readying to depart. Sorin rounded on her with a dark expression. “And where were you?” he asked scornfully.

 

Konan raised an eyebrow and pulled a book out of the bag she held. The foreign writing was clear on the cover.

 

The king's expression became pained. “Nori,” he said heavily.

 

“Whatever it is, I didn't do it,” came the instant response.

 

She left them to their nonsensical bickering and wondered how guests so loud could possibly sneak out of such a place. The halls were spacious stone, with little in the way of fabric to muffle the passage of sound. Presumably their hosts were not all sleeping with pillows pressed over their heads. To be fair, dwarves were reasonably stealthy once their mouths had been shut, but that was a fairly rare occurrence, in her experience.

 

Her answer came when she looked back- the golden armor of not one, but three elven guards gleamed out from the tower overlooking their escape path. They were clearly marking the group's passage. There was only one conclusion she could come to:

 

The elves knew about the late-night departure. They merely found the dwarves unpleasant enough not to try to stop them.

 

Her mouth twisted.

 

Fair point.

 

The party crossed the small city, led by Kili-san, of all the people. Perhaps he had been scouting the elven city- he demonstrated admirable familiarity. They did not return to the pavilion where they had originally entered. Instead, they wound through empty streets and garden paths towards the mountains that rose behind the settlement.

 

Konan felt her eyes narrow, puzzled. She understood that they would be continuing on their journey and leaving by that a different exit was reasonable. But she did not comprehend why no one turned for the stables where their beasts of burden were imprisoned. The company was unpleasantly weighed down by the baggage that was normally carried by the ponies. Surely the detour would save them time. She expected that the elves would likely be relived enough to see the backs of the dwarves that they would saddle the ponies personally.

 

Her gaze darted ahead, guessing at their path. She squinted and- yes. There was a trail winding up through the mountains. Perhaps it was too narrow, or the air too thin for the ponies. They would be leaving the animals behind.

 

She had not been the first to come to this conclusion, she realized. Itachi was the cheeriest she had seen him in weeks, his dour countenance lifted to mere existential dissatisfaction.

 

Konan was not quite decided on her opinion in regards to this turn of events. The ponies were horrible, flatulent beasts, but they performed useful work. She was dismayed to realize that this change would negatively impact their travel speed for the rest of the journey. Perhaps Sorin's fear of the passage of time made some sense.

 

The company was invigorated by the restful days at Rivendell, and well-fed as well. Their packs were full of provisions that she wasn't entirely certain had been offered by the elves. Yet they began to flag after several hours of climbing in the darkness, the quiet occasionally broken by the sound of a misplaced stone tumbling behind them.

 

Still, they pressed on.

 

Konan smelled the change in the air before she knew what was wrong. It was thin here, yes. That did sometimes cause light-headedness or other illness. But the painfully slow pace had made that transition easy. Something else registered as danger, wrongness to her mind.

 

She inhaled deeply, trying to locate the problem. Rain? Yes, the atmosphere was too dry- rain would come soon. A night rainfall should not put her on edge in such a manner. What could-

 

Nature chakra, Konan realized, as the rain began to fall. There was a natural source of chakra stirring around them. As far as she could tell, the percussion of rain all over the stone was interfering with the natural state of affairs. Essentially, the latent nature chakra in the rain was reacting with the much higher concentration in the very mountains. Stiff, she cut off all her attempts to reach out and detect the oddities. She knew full-well what resulted from an unworthy person contacting that type of power. She did not wish to turn to stone.

 

There would be trouble. She did not know what form it might take, but she sensed it intimately.

 

A glance ahead only showed her the back of Bumfur's head. There wasn't enough space to walk around him at that point in the path, so she leapt up and bounded the distance across the face of the mountain. There was a startled yelp, but she paid it no mind.

 

“What-” Sorin cut off in shock as she landed in front of him, eyes sarting to the rock face she'd been walking on. “How did-” he cut himself off. “What is it?”

 

She hesitated, because actually- how would she communicate this concept? They didn't understand chakra. “Danger,” Konan settled for, using her hands to indicate around them, but especially ahead. “A danger from chakra.”

 

Sorin's jaw tightened. “What kind of danger? Are there enemies about?”

 

When she shook her head no, he didn't seem impressed. “What seems to be the problem?”

 

“There is a great chakra,” she tried, feeling her face turn into a frown. “A power that is not from a person.” How did you communicate the concept of nature in this language? “It is in the stones.”

 

By his expression, that sounded about as intelligent as she thought it did. “I see,” Sorin said stiffly. “What would you have us do?”

 

She considered and discarded ideas in the space of a moment.

 

Leave for the relative safety of the path behind?

 

Improbable. He would never consent.

 

Hide?

 

Would it do any good? Was there anywhere to go?

 

Konan sighed. “Be wary,” she settled. “Do not touch more than you must. And look for a place to shelter for the night. The rain is” -agitating the natural chakra -“making the problem.”

 

He gave her a long look before he nodded. But he wasn't disregarding her advice. He turned and related the information to the party. The rain coming down in torrents muffled sound, so that each person had to repeat the caution to the next dwarf.

 

Her nerves climbed. She had dulled her senses to the power working around them, but the ambient energy was high enough that sensing was not necessary to detect it. She slipped further back in the line until she met with Itachi and gave him a questioning look. He flicked his gaze in one-two-three directions pointedly, and tilted his head.

 

Soon, then. They would pass one of the largest concentrations soon. She found herself holding her breath. She considered reminding her compatriots- if the worst happened, they were to protect Sorin, Fili, and Kii, in that order. The rest were expendable- well. No, without Balin, they were unlikely to reach the mountain. She quietly changed her focus to the oldest dwarf in the party, trusting that Itachi would look to Sorin. When she tilted her head pointedly, he nodded and slipped further ahead in the party. Kisame was watching her from above the crowd. When she pursed her lips and looked to the back, he crouched and leapt over the group in one enormous movement to take the rear.

 

She ignored the upset exclamations of the dwarves. Now was not the time.

 

Stone cracked on a scale that no Iwa nin had ever accomplished. Her heartbeat jumped- where was- above! An enormous rock was colliding above their heads, breaking into pieces.

 

Konan flexed her hands and separated her body, becoming a thousand pieces to block the weight of the stone that had impacted above the company's heads. She undulated the paper, forcing the debris to roll over the great height and into freefall.

 

Someone was screaming. She twisted back into human form to see the problem and saw Ori holding onto her pack with a shocked expression. Ah. Of course. It was not made of her body, nor her chakra-infused equipment- it had not transformed when she had. Konan considered retrieving the bag from him, but perhaps it would be safer in his hands for the moment. When he saw her standing on the rockface above his head, she nodded thanks. His face was white.

 

Ah, she realized. He'd thought she was dead. She let out a soft laugh, amused despite herself.

 

Then the mountain shook. It was- Konan dug her fingers into the stone, alarmed. What was- an earthquake jutsu, or-

 

Oh.

 

“Shimatta.”

 

The dwarf with the hat- was that Bumbor or Bifor? She could never keep the extra dwarves straight- shouted something about legends being true.

 

Her face tightened.

 

If there were legends about this sort of creature, it would have been exceedingly practical for the information to have been included in the mission briefing. Of course the dwarves had never thought of it.

 

Konan looked at the humanoid monsters rising far too close, and ran calculations. They were unbalanced- it would not be impossible for her to knock them over. Would they be able to get back up? Would the reverberating weight of such a beast falling shake their path off the mountain?

 

Itachi had a jutsu that created a samurai of similar size, she remembered. But that introduced the same risks- if the combat destroyed their path, she and Kisame could only save perhaps three or four of the party.

 

That many fatalities would be terrible for their chances of being rehired. They might as well leave them all to die, slay the lizard, and fill their packs with gold. It would be less troublesome. Konan felt a headache coming on.

 

She went to order Itachi to intervene with his summon, but noticed something curious: The stone men were not targeting the party. They were fighting each other.

 

Ah, Konan realized, relaxing. That made their chances much better- they needed to keep moving, and quickly. Escaping presented less likelihood of disaster than fighting.

 

The dwarves would live another day, then.

 

“Go!” she shouted, but her voice was lost in the wind. Kisame registered and began pushing the dwarf in front of him, starting the back of the line in motion. Ori was still staring, so she gestured pointedly, waving her arms and indicating speed. He licked his lips and nodded, feet moving until he pressed up against Dwalin's back. The taller man registered the touch, glanced back, and understood. Nori had startled when Ori began to move, clutching his brother's coat and moving in coordination.

 

Good. They'd all start moving again that way. She hurried back to Sorin, keeping an eye above the company. He was already urging the company on, holding close to the wall.

 

He had some sense in his head. Konan watched the skies, feeling her nerves rise as the monsters came closer. Their blows echoed around the mountains, shaking the foundations of their perch again.

 

Wait.

 

No. She felt the blood leave her face. The mountain they were on was shaking from internal motion- shaking from the immense force of a being partially inside of it shaking free. The head broke free first, sending a waterfall of thin gray stones cascading behind the party. The shouts carried to the front of the group, where Sorin whirled around wide-eyed. “Move!” he bellowed.

 

Konan agreed with the sentiment.

 

She lingered long enough to watch the group sprint on, tense. She could see the fissure line where the stone man would rise. Almost all of the group was past when it cracked, creating a foot-wide gap in the space of an instant. Kili yelped, separated from Fili. Kisame bounded forward and hefted up Kili, the red-haired dwarf, and somehow managed to snatch the deaf man on the edge of the abyss before he could tumble down. Kisame sailed over the gap thus burdened, sensibly choosing to run across the stone cliff face instead of drop to the crowded path again. She nodded when he passed.

 

Konan fell back to Kisame's prior position at the end of the procession, though she kept her higher altitude for improved visibility. It was a mad dash, slipping and panting in darkness that was only occasionally broken by sharp white light. The stone fighters did not follow, as she had suspected. Their blows still rang, but increasingly, it was from a distance. Three dwarves had disappeared from sight before she understood that Sorin had somehow found shelter. When she followed them in, she cast only a short, suspicious look back at the rain and the sound of the clashing of hard bodies.

 

All was quiet for a few moments, as the civilians bent and panted. Konan surveyed the group one final time, doing an unneeded headcount. All were there. Kisame nodded at her gaze. Itachi closed his eyes and bowed slightly.

 

“That coulda been worse,” Bomfur said, mopping at his face with that terrible hat. Jeers and dirty looks were aimed at him immediately, though Konan didn't quite understand the implication.

 

Kili seemed to catch her confusion. He sidled closer, somehow already wearing his usual expression of mischievousness. Being soaking wet somehow enhanced that impression. “They think it's bad luck,” he explained in an undertone.

 

She raised an eyebrow.

 

“Because he said things could be worse,” Kili explained. He moved to nudge her, clearly thought better of it, and then winked instead. “It's like he's daring the world to try again.”

 

“Ah,” Konan said politely. “How interesting. We have no such custom.”

 

She actually didn't know if her people had such a custom. Perhaps civilians did. She wouldn't know. In any case, it seemed to be foolish and unproductive to extrapolate future tragedy because of someone's word choice. She turned away from the knowing look Kili gave her. She readied for sleep.

 

...

 

That form of superstition seemed slightly more credible after a hole had yawned open in the floor while they were sleeping. There was a terrible cursing and clanging as packs, weapons, and bodies fell.

 

Konan's shoulder strained, pained by the effort of holding over 100 kilograms of damp, angry dwarf and attendant armor. Sorin spun furiously in her grip, which did not enhance her balance on her perch inside the vertical tunnel. Kisame had managed to catch both of the boys in a similar manner. Itachi had, apparently, snatched the closest dwarf without thought for tactics, because the dwarf with a weapon in his head was clutching to the teenager and bellowing downward.

 

Kili looked at her. “I told you so,” he said. She couldn't hear his words over the shouting, but he was careful to move his mouth enough to make his meaning clear.

 

Konan sighed. She nodded. “You did tell me so.”

 

He shrugged as if to say, “what can a person do?” The movement made him slip slightly downward in Kisame's grip, but his clothes were caught over Kisame's arm. He stilled, but the motion had already exposed a few centimeters of hairy belly. It looked, quite frankly, ridiculous.

 

_'They're like puppies,'_ Konan thought wearily. ' _Tiring and very, very foolish._ ' She thought about telling Pein-sama that she was unable to continue this mission because she had dropped all of the civilians down a hole and gone off to have another long bath with the elves.

 

Hm. Probably not.

 

“After them!” Sorin shouted. He attempted to break her grip on the collar of his leather shirt by struggling. That merely served to bunch the material around his jaw and neck, forcing his arms upward as well. She glanced down, perturbed. He was quickly turning pink.

 

Fili made a sound like a deflating balloon. He might have been outraged, or he might have been stifling laughter.

 

The sound of weapons meeting rang out below. That expression was definitely outrage now. Sorin was red.

 

Well. Nothing for it.

 

Konan sighed again. “Down we go,” she intoned resignedly. Then she let go of the wall.

 


End file.
